Clint Bowman: Poetry

Growing up in the rural outskirts of High Point in the Piedmont of North Carolina, Clint Bowman spent much of his time in the outdoors finding inspiration in the wilderness that surrounded his childhood home. A 2015 graduate of North Carolina State University, Clint learned nearly everything he knows about poetry through a single class he attended at NC State and further self-teachings through critical analysis of poems and peer reviews of his own works by other writers.

FIVE POEMS

TantalizationAt night, my day falls apartas I toss frantically in my sheetsrollingleft to right to left to right raising my arms each timeto catch the ceilingfalling over my head. Pushing back plaster puttyand molding it backas I would as a childat the beachwith a sandcastledrooping from disheveled wavesdestroying my workin the same waymy dreams destroy reality. Full CountSitting in the tenth rowwith a bag of peanuts, baseball cap, and a beer,my dad and I watchthe local farm leagueswing away missing ballshere and there on offense and defense that would turn to gold if they could catchthem in the big leagues. My dad, an older version of me,just happy to be thereenjoying America’s past timewith his son who carriesthe weight of his future dreams. Me, sitting there thinkingof the time I played little leagueand the ball hit me right between my eyes and I started to cry as the head coach yelledat me to “suck it up”and that “pain feels good,”all while my dad looked on.If a good life is equal toa good batting average, then I guess you can saythat day was a strikeoutand right now I’m in a full count, and this next line isan approaching strike.

Walmart, 2017I pull into my spotin the littered parking lotnext to a worn downlittle black carwith rusted doorsand a missing back plate.The cardboard sign in the back window reads“Lost Plate.”The driver sidedoor is wide openwith a heavy set man sitting in the thresholdscalping the top offa scratch-off lottery ticket—not bothering to look up.I arrive at the automaticsliding doors painted“ENTER” and “EXIT”with herds coming out both.A middle age woman walks ahead of mewith a red stain bleeding up the crotch of her white pants—nobody else seems to notice, so I don’t bother with it.I just grab my cart and go—ready for the low prices. I step into the circus—head spinningfrom fluorescent lights.A bad headache puts bags under my eyesmaking me look like an addict.I put my head down—eliminating eye contact, praying no one sees.I don’t say a word, but the broken wheelson my cart scream“look at me!I’m a drug addict!”But I’m not. Maybe I’m only seeingthe one bad sideof each individualwho is really just like me—A normal human beingon a low budget just looking for a deal.

Highway of LifeThere’s a five lane highwaygoing each and every way—the interstate of lifedigs and twists like a knife.Newborns on the on-rampand elderly by the exit, druggies tread and tramp, hoofing it after each hit.Mothers in the right laneride safe and steady, but are bothered by babiesand old folks that are ready.Businessmen bolt in the left—dodging lies to deathand passing their lovesto a quicker last breath.I’m cruising in the middle—on defense and yieldingto each set of treaded tiresholding me back like barbed wire.But I guess we’re all the fortunate ones, with tanks full of gasand an engine that runs.My buddy Brandon wasn’t one; twenty-one and never older—white t-shirt hanging out of a broke down ’94 on the shoulder.Up the road, I see a wreckand all lanes forming a bottleneckfrom a car in the middle lanethat crashed from cancer of the brain.

The Story of a SkyscraperThere I stood, simple structurewith only one story to tellof back-breaking bare handsthat rose me from this landand could never stop working.Story after story, my lifebecame a storybook.My first story turned intoa thumb that pressed harderand harder on the worldfrom the weight of myselfand the swelling plumesof gas from bulldozersand cranes that lifted me uphigher and higher to the point where I could seethe pearly gates of heaventhrough clouds of carbon.Getting closer and closeras workers kept building and building through the noisefilled world of smoke,the gates opened as the handsof earth began to partas God’s would with wineand I began to fall with my creators below.Steel beams folded and glass flew out of windows as a flock to a treeand a gustof wind to adandelionseed.

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